


More Harm than Good

by drowsycakes



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bittersweet, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Break Up, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Sickfic, rated for language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:26:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8945308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowsycakes/pseuds/drowsycakes
Summary: By evening, Gabriel Reyes’ cold is a novelty conversation in every Watchpoint from Grand Mesa to Pakse. Somehow a beleaguered Dr.  Angela Ziegler manages to convince Overwatch's Strike-Commander to deliver medicine to his temperamental old flame.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Reaper7Sick fic, part of the [Overwatch Big Bang](http://owbigbang.tumblr.com) on Tumblr! Artist [Laur-Rants](http://laur-rants.tumblr.com)/[EdgeLaur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Theywerefireworks/pseuds/EdgeLaur) was extremely supportive and patient throughout the whole process, and drew some incredible art to go along with it! 
> 
> (Please check out [their incredible art for this fic](http://laur-rants.tumblr.com/post/155052674657/alright-so-this-is-super-late-because-life-sucks) and all their other amazing works on their blog!!)

“I don’t suppose I could seek a second opinion on this, Dr. Ziegler?”

Even if half of him intends it as  a joke, Jack Morrison doesn’t quite convince half of his smile to show it. It’s not the first time he’s grateful the transmission is set to - _Voice Only-._  The call goes quiet,  just long enough for Jack to eye the Connection Strength’s full four bars in the corner of the screen,  before Angela’s reply comes through. She laughs, but it’s an obligatory needle-prick of a giggle that  lacks the young doctor’s bubbly glow.

“I’m afraid not this time.”

 The way her words barely escape a sigh  makes Jack’s desk chair feel as though it could swallow him any second: a sensation he hasn’t felt since the first day he sat behind the shiny-new nameplate of STRIKE-COMMANDER. Angela reaching out to him had only been a matter of time. That it has taken this long has largely been due to his own efforts.   

He’s been  deliberately thinning  himself over the last five days with conferences, meetings, and com-calls on any matter he would ordinarily ask  ATHENA to politely “reschedule.”  But when word reaches his office that the Blackwatch Commander has called in sick for the first time ever, Jack makes a 10 o’clock with The  Sub-Committee Head of Omnics for Endangered Aquatic Rodents his utmost priority.

 However, for all the briefings he had forced upon  himself to attend, he feels as though he missed the press conference held on the very matter he was avoiding. By evening, Gabriel Reyes’ cold is a novelty conversation in every Watchpoint from Grand Mesa to Pakse, and over the next four days,  Zurich’s base is besieged under a  barrage of intrigue and rumors.   Even a booked schedule fails to block shrapnel from conversations zipping by  his ears:

  _No contact with his subordinates. Refuses to open his door for any meals they’re sending down…_

_…Dr. Ziegler’s been sitting outside his door with medicine for the past three nights. Her pet cyborg has to go out to fetch her..._

_…a “Blackcap” mentioned bringing in a hacker to rework the passcode to his flat. Didn’t hear it from me, though..._

_Was that...Strike-Commander Morrison?  At one point, wasn’t Reyes---_

 “Everything you need… should be there at your desk,” Angela continues. “I tried leaving it somewhere fairly conspicuous for you. ”

His grin perks a little at that. “ Mission accomplished then.” 

The crate from Zurich’s Medical Wing had been visible before his office doors fully parted. It had been one of the industrial units used for shipping supplies out of Central, the kind  forklifts loaded onto cruisers and jets. Two side by side would’ve matched the height and length of his desk and it felt absurd to picture  Angela toting it across campus herself . Sure enough, a large palm print at the bottom, fingertips wide and slightly crusted with peanut butter, outed the good doctor’s  assistant. 

The crate’s only contents, however, had been the small, wooden case now lounging in Jack’s lap. No one had thankfully walked in on their Strike-Commander digging through the oversized package like he was a kid at christmas, double checking to make absolutely sure that, yes, this is indeed the only thing in there. Cheeky pranks didn’t suit Dr. Ziegler, not the way they did Oxton, though this had been committed for the same reason:  attention. If  that hadn’t been clear enough, a string of several “missed call” notifications awaited him at his desk, each promptly two minutes apart.

    “…And I made sure to include instructions on how to administer inside—printed, of course.  I’ve been told my penmanship is…well, I’m told it suits my profession.” She pauses with a tired little chitter before clearing her throat. “However, it’s been...impossible to get a clear read on his symptoms, so try to approximate dosage based on my notes when you go see him.”

_See him?_ Jack’s teeth snap together as if there’s a grenade clip between them, live and volatile with dread _._ The thought of seeing him--of seeing Gabriel Reyes--without  the buffer of a weekly agenda or the faces of their comrades in a conference room; seeing him alone, in a space they once shared and dared to mimic some semblance of a normal relationship: the worst thing was knowing how for years,  such a thought had been the thing that saw him through the day.

A plucky set of taps pop from the other end of the call. “Jack? Jack, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good! I was afraid I lost you there,” she adds with another tired laugh. “You’ve been a hard man to track down.”  

Jack runs a thumb over the latch securing the medical case. A halo and a pair of crossed wings are hewn into its front.  “Yeah. Some things have come up this week.”

An exhale, sharp but sympathetic. “I know. I know they have. And...I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I thought there was a more viable option. Think of it….as just another meeting on your agenda today, if that helps. Do it out of respect of your fellow commander--or even... your time together,” she adds, earning a  bark-like laugh from Jack.

“I’m not sure how much merit either of those has any more.”

“For Ana then,” Angela says, and the name prickles the fine hairs at the base of  Jack’s neck. He hasn’t heard it in months. “Seeing the two of you act like this would’ve kill--”

 The transmission goes quiet again, and this time,  Jack doesn’t check their connection strength. Nor does he let his eyes wander over to the part of his desk that’s clear of the photographs and the mazes of dust they used to leave behind. It had been Ana who had turned his attention to that charming feature of his workspace. Having the eyes of the world’s sharpest sniper at his side meant enduring cheeky comments about office cleanliness in between saving lives and sips of tea. Even off the field, the woman had a knack for honing in on problems in the interior. Tea, chocolates, and the occasional sleep dart meant that no one was allowed to stay mad at anyone for long, once Ana found out.

 The case suddenly grows heavy in his lap. Had he not insisted on overseeing the Gaza evac himself, the dust and the photographs would still be at his desk. And so would she.

“ _Es tut mir leid..._ ” she whispers under a soft shuffle of papers. “That...was poorly worded. I should not have said--” 

“Don’t apologize.”

 The request comes out sounding more like an order, and he baulks hearing it:   his _Soldier Voice, w_ hich Gabriel and Ana had  (mostly) lovingly teased him about. “You’re absolutely right. It would’ve.” 

_No, not it would’ve._ Jack internally corrects. _It did._  

“You don’t have to worry, Angela. I’ll take care of him--of it,” he corrects, but it’s a moment too late for the familiar  bubbly laugh on the other end  to notice.

“I was never worried, Jack,” she says, and her smile somehow manages to manifest itself through a - _Voice Only-_ call. For a heartbeat, it feels like Ana is in the room again. “ _Danke._  Call if you need anything.”   

With an ebbing chirp, the transmission ends, and ATHENA’s main hub pops back into focus. The AI’s touch sensor idles in the corner of the screen, and Jack watches it spool around like unwinding thread. He brings a thumb up to one of the strings, and it scans to confirm.

“Set security to level...six. Default away message. Depart in forty-five.”

The sensor blinks green _. “...AFFIRMATIVE...SYSTEM LOCKDOWN INITIATING.”_

Whirls from the shutters to the bay windows begin to spark up behind him. Jack stands, shrugging one arm into the long blue overcoat, while the other pockets the medical case from Angela. He catches a glimpse of Zurich’s sky line, the river still gold with early morning lights, before the blinds slide into place.

_“...LOCKDOWN COMMENCING IN...THIRTY SECONDS.”_

He rounds his desk as the overhead florescents dip to about sixty percent, but stops to tuss a few stubborn spikes of hair to the front. A few short strands drift to his collar, as he secures an earpiece among tufts that have already started to silver.  He knows he’ll find a few more white ones after he’s through with all of this. Deeper scowl lines, too.

_“...TEN SECONDS REMAINING…”_

The countdown continues  in his earpiece once he’s outside. ATHENA’s voice rattles off everything right down into  the single digits. Behind him, the doors to central secure with a satisfying hum; a confirmation message shoots across the screen of his scouter, and fades with a careful tap. The one for daily use is  much more fragile than the one he takes into the field: a feature Jack discovered through the trial and error of more or less shattering the device.  R&D hadn’t quite factored “Super Soldier Strength” into their user-error testing, yet.

Jack chews the inside of  his lip to stifle a smile. He and Gabe used to take pools over who could destroy less in a given week, after its initial goal of “who could destroy more” spawned an impromptu meeting with several sour accountants.   

He takes a sharp left to where the corridor diverges to the covered bridge above the main terminal, and hopes it will be the more discrete route: the refueling-crew attending to a cargo freight departing for Bangkok  are too busy to notice him passing overhead. Neither does the ship’s pilot, who is napping in the adjoining breakroom, while her two loading attendants attempt to squeeze in one last round of Fighters of the Storm before takeoff.  His steps slow when he spots the black cap in the corner, even when he knows; even when he sees the figure is too slight and the posture too loose to be Gabriel’s.    Still, it jars him to see a Blackwatch member stand exactly where Gabriel had been the morning of the Gaza evac: where Jack had watched Ana slip an arm around Gabriel’s neck, before lightly slapping the sides of his cheeks.

“ _I told him that I would get you home safely--just as I always do,_ ” she informs, once they were aboard, “ _and I told him:  ‘I know it’s early, but you had better wake that smile up by the time we get back.’_ ”

The Blackwatch agent locks eyes with him during the last windowed segment of the bridge, and there’s a familiar, palatable uncertainty in their gaze that takes him back to precisely how Gabriel had looked as the doors to the dropship to Gaza sealed.

Jack takes an elevator ride in solitude down to the lower levels, and cuts past a flower bed  in the shape of Overwatch’s distinctive crest:  a landmark that used to let him know he was only about a mile’s jog from home. He walks, this time, and once he’s out from under the awning, Jack spots the crest of the hill that Gabriel Reyes  had scouted for his quarters during construction. The river-side lot  had been at the edge of the Watchpoint’s property. It faced the city, and he had hoped it would help ease any wistfulness for Los Angeles.  There were certain nights that Gabriel would lie on his side, his fingers spreading the gap between the blinds of their bedroom. He’d sigh, only when he thought Jack wasn’t listening.

Gabriel had always been the more homesick of the two, though the man had taken great strides in never appearing that way. Everyone  on the team at one point or another had been subjected to a four minute rant on  “I -Heart- LA” t-shirts, how  they were kitschy souvenirs for tourists, and why no self-respecting Angeleno would own one.  Naturally, Jesse McCree gifted him three every Christmas with a snicker about as subtle as a rattler’s tail. Gabe would scoff, complain loudly about it, and then wear one to bed that night.

The path dips along the careful slope of the hill, down to where Jack’s ears can pick up the Limmat in the distance. He digs his hands deep into his coat pocket, despising the little leap his heart makes at the sound: another mark he had used when this had been his evening route home.  Jack’s fingers tighten around the medicine case to remind him why he’s here.

_Treat it like a business meeting_ , he tells himself. _Just_ _like any other business meeting you would’ve had today._ That meant not reminiscing  while passing under the set of larch trees just a few hundred feet from the front door, or missing  the section of the sidewalk Fareeah Amari  (Age 10) left handprints in drying cement. He’d have to prepare for the house to greet him as a stranger again, for the lights to come on a different setting once he steps through the door---

Jack swears through his teeth. The door.

He hasn’t lived there in months. By now,  his prints and retina have probably been removed from the list of  authorized entry.  So, when Angela had said that he had been her last viable option, it hadn’t been out of sentiment of their shared past. She had been banking on his position; only the Strike-Commander had authority to  gain clearance and override any unauthorized lock on any Watchpoint in the world. That included the Blackwatch Commander’s personal quarters.

Another curse slips out, though no one, save  the two larches  would’ve been able to hear it. So much for not trying to dwell on the past. The override code had been in place even before the facilities of Zurich, and was comprised of five words Jack had personally selected. The UN had instructed him to choose things that were somewhat obscure, but also personal enough that he would never forget them. Jack had only used it once to open another agent’s personal quarters, after a suspicious parcel had been delivered to their room while out on assignment. His more frequent use of the passcode was to reset the security settings if he didn’t make it out of his office in the set given time, which happened a bit more frequently than Jack cared to admit. Some days his hair was extra stubborn on the way out.

He approaches the building just as a breeze tickles a set of windchimes. Gerard LaCroix had purchased the item for them while visiting family in Versaille.  “Pardonne-moi, _I know you said no gifts,”_ read his attached note, _“But ah!_ Ma jolie femme _honed in on these and said they would be perfect for you--how could I say no? A local artist was crafting these_ for the grand re-opening of Le Exhibition du Roi-Soleil. _It belongs under a Morrison-Reyes roof without a doubt, though.”_

From the front, the chimes appeared to be a sun: simple, large, and golden; but laid on its side, the forward splashing rays took the shape of tines on a crown. Dangling from the points were smaller silver suns and crowns in competing order. When they clashed, when they mingled, their music could be heard anywhere in the flat.  

Suns and crowns...a fitting fanfare for the first passcode:

_Coronado,_ for the restaurant on Goldshire and Third that had a waiting list thicker than Reinhardt Wilhelm’s armor and a stack of five-star reviews to match it. Securing a reservation for a rooftop table on New Year’s Eve meant you were either starring in the latest Glitchbot flick, funding the latest Glitchbot flick, or happened to be dating the owner-head chef’s baby brother. Jack met Maricela under such conditions: a self-starter with lean cheeks and a quirked smile that was a carbon copy of the one he had loved so dearly on her brother. The siblings also shared a particularly colorful temper, a feature Jack soon discovered over the Thanksgiving dinner she announced her intent to hire an omnic sous-chef. Yet no matter how long or how loud their spats raged on; Mari, the first voice out of the phone pressed to Gabriel’s ear after a long mission, always had a table waiting for them.  

The second was for the first place he’d felt at home after Bloomington. _Gallipoli_ had been a Watchpoint before Watchpoints existed: a modest but necessary station for the Mediterranean during the Crisis. It served as overflow now, storage for the R &D equipment and server vaults not in use at the newer facilities over in Gibraltar. Soldiers, not circuit boards, populated it during its prime, but slim accommodations meant doubling up whenever possible. A locker, at first. Then quarters, until covertly sharing a bunk eventually happened out of need, but not necessity.  It had been different from the SEP. Gallipoli had made him honest with what had been done to them, what they were, and what _this_ was.  Nostalgia still called him back to their old locker during refueling stops. From time to time, he would open it to find a doodle on a post-it note or half a tin of hard mints. They were tokens  left by the only other passing pilgrim who knew the combo: little reminders for him that an undercover Commander Reyes still yet lived.

There are no tokens or any signs of life from within the apartment’s entrance, however.  No lights from behind the door or front window, but that wasn’t uncommon for Gabriel even in peak conditions. It’s early enough that maintenance omnics haven’t been by yet, and the stoop has signs of unreceived visitors and their gifts. Shunted off to the side are two covered dishes from the cafe, untouched; a tie of hunched and browning wild flowers, and two tins of Kogi Herbal Tea. Jack picks up the latter with a fond squeeze. Neither of them had been  drinkers prior to their introduction to Captain Ana Amari, who was a firm believer that there was _always_ time for tea, and iris embrace the rogue omnic or agent that stood between her and her cup. She drank  a particularly bitter brew during the Crisis as milk, sugars, and creamers weren’t exactly at the top of the rations itinerary.

_“When all this madness is over and done with, I’ll prepare a cup of Koshary tea for all of you,_ ” she vowed after their coffee provisions began dwindling. “ _Add a couple of fresh mint leaves, and you’ll never go back to coffee. You won’t want to.”_

Over the years, Koshary tea breaks became a shared pastime for the three of them. For Jack, it had come to represent the promise  of a calmer, more stable world in the future, no matter how hectic the week. Selecting _Koshary_ as a passcode for the organization that stood for all of that had been among his easiest decisions as Strike-Commander.

Jack pockets the tea and, at last, turns his attention to the security pad on the door, and the menacing hologram of a red lock hovering over it. He rolls his right glove down to his wrist and presses the exposed palm against it. It scans and reads his prints, preparing to reject any and all access to the apartment. _Coronado. Gallipoli. Koshary..._

But without a word, the lock hologram comes undone with a green chirp, and the door slides open for him as it had for over a decade.   

He doesn’t move.  For a good five seconds, or however long it takes for the automated door to close and relock, Jack is fixture outside the entrance of his old lover’s flat.  The air starts to settle into the bones of his ungloved hand, and it prompts him to test the lock once more. It slides open again, and Jack forces his legs to carry him through.   

Motion sensors bring the lights up to Jack’s preferred setting of  sixty-three percent. Immediately, the smokey marble kitchen countertops come into view on his right. The white hand towel is where it usually is  by the  sink,  and the hanging rack of pots and searing pans still resembles a grotesque chandelier. He recognizes the striped bowls and drinking glasses stacked on the island, but not the food and grime crusting the insides of them.

“You must be really sick, ” Jack whispers. The Gabriel he lived with would never have tolerated unwashed dishes in plain sight.

He takes a step into the living room, as he fights the familiar urge to undo the pressure lock on his boots and settle in.  The couch is still the Indonesian daybed they specially ordered. The sunflower pillows and fleece throw look like they _could_ be new, but Jack never had a discerning eye for bedding details. The holo-vid on the coffee table looks like a slightly larger model than what he remembers. The coasters are definitely new,  and are positioned over stains and blemishes that Jack almost certainly inflicted. Four of them are currently in use holding coffee mugs, long cold and half full. Definitely sick, Jack concurs, but not enough to make the man resort to savagery and not use a coaster.  

He checks the hall bathroom on the way to the study, and finds both empty of its occupant. Jack knows he has to be holed up in the bedroom, but feels compelled to check if Gabriel’s grandmother’s writing desk is in the same corner is it always has been in the study. It is, next to a matching armoire. But once he’s combed the apartment for every possible excuse, he finds himself outside the master suite, hands desperate for a gun like he’s about to enter a Talon-controlled base.

He reaches for the knob. “It’s a meeting. He’s a co-worker,” he breathes. “It’s a mission.  That’s what this is. That’s all it is.”

The window blinds are snapped so tight behind the curtains  that it takes a moment for Jack’s eyes to adjust to the complete  lack of sunlight. He braces a hand on the door and leans into the room.

“Gabriel?”

He feels a bit like a bat, flustered and fluttering by the use of sound alone. The hallway lights offer a little bit of aid, and frames the bedroom with vague shapes. But even in the dim light, there’s no mistaking the cocoon of blankets in the southern corner, curled and tucked against the space between the wall and the window.  His memory fills in the rest: everything between tangled limbs and legs in mornings, to the midnights he watched a body shiver and curse across the room in cot SEP006.

“Gabriel,” he says again, a little bit stronger this time. Another step has him considering whether or not he should tug on the comforter a little .  The breath under it is steady with sleep, and Jack settles for placing a hand upon the mattress.  “Gabriel...Gabe.”

Jack draws himself back as the comforter shifts with an agonizing little hiss against the sheets. It turns in a slow rotation until  the biometric scouter over Jack’s eye boxes an outline around G. Reyes’ facial features.

Gabriel half props himself up on an elbow, and after a moment, grunts rough and low.  “Now I’m hallucinating.”

Jack catches Gabriel by the shoulder before he can roll back over. “You’re not,” He says and glances up at the ceiling. “Lights to twenty three, please,”

The room obeys, even as Gabriel’s eyes squeeze in protest.  He had worn his skull cap to bed, the knitted brim pulled so that it covered his brows and ears. His beard has started to encroach into his neck and cheeks, though it’s still thick in the usual spots. There’s bruising around and under his eyelids, and when he finally does manage to keep them open, Gabriel’s sclera is ruddy from burst blood vessels: both signs of violent vomiting that Jack recognizes all too well from the SEP.    

 “Jesus Christ, Gabriel….You look like death.”

 “Such a charmer,” Gabriel starts, before a coughing fit interrupts him. He finishes with a lopsided grin that makes Jack  question if the whole thing had actually been laughter. “Always were. Coming all this way just to flatter a sick old man.”

  _It’s a meeting,_ Jack reminds himself.

 “Dr. Ziegler asked me to deliver medicine,” Jack says, and this time, there’s no disputing the noise Gabriel makes at Angela’s name.  “She’s been outside your door for hours at a time trying to make contact.”

“Is that what that was...? Thought some new annoying species of waterfowl had injured itself on my deck.”  

 “Not just her, either. Lindholm. Irving, Breslowe and UMURI from the kitchen, just to name a few from yesterday.  All of the Blackca--your agents,” Jack swiftly corrects as Gabriel’s mouth thins at the unofficial nickname. “Evans, Harada, the _other_ Reyes, Krueger, Gomez--”  

“You?” 

Jack pauses before he can mention Clarke or McCree, or any of the other dozen names off the tip of his tongue.  It dawns on him that his earnest to avoid the whole situation had instead made him hyper aware of anything or anyone interested in Gabriel’s condition.

“I’m here at Angela’s request,” is his response, and Gabriel scowls deep enough for Jack to be able to make out the shape of his brows from under the cap.

“Then she wasted your time, Strike-Commander.” 

Gabriel turns until the blankets crown the top of his head again. “Lights to ze--” but Jack yanks him back into place before the command completes.  He grabs the medicine out of his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the canister of tea  before placing it beside him on the bed. 

“I’m not leaving until you take this.”

Gabriel eyes flick from the case up to Jack with a heavy sniff. The burst blood vessels add a sharp red tint to  the normally gentle brown. “Then I guess that makes us roommates again.”

The sneer at the end sets fire to every nerve and muscle in Jack’s body, and his grip on Gabriel’s arm grows a little tighter. _It’s a mission,_ he reiterates. “I’m not leaving….until--”

“...you take it,” murmurs Gabriel, but the pillow against the side of his mouth muffles the rest of his words.     

“What was that?”

 He slides a half-closed eye open. “I said that _you_ should take it. That’s how things work around here: If it’s intended for me, then...”

There’s no memory, no voice, no internal monologue that stops Jack from lunging forward; his hands and knees braced beside a stubborn, infuriating Gabriel Reyes entombed in blankets. When the Blackwatch Commander loosens an arm free to push him off, Jack easily counters, and it’s his first real reminder of  just how sick Gabriel is. Yet, it doesn’t stop the breath from being hot in Jack’s lungs, or his teeth from threatening to snap in his jaw. “You have a job to do, Reyes.  It may not be the one you wanted, and I of all people know it’s not be the one you deserve. But I do need you, nonetheless, and so do many other people: Alive. Healthy.”

He takes a deep breath and holds it. “Just..please. Let me do this, Gabe. Let’s just get the job over and done with, and I’ll be gone.”

 Under the mess of covers, Gabriel fidgets, one hand still locked down by Jack. He’s quiet and his eyes are heavy, if not a little unfocused.  “ ‘Just get the job done’ huh?” Gabriel finally hums, “I’m today’s objective, is that it?” 

“Gabriel, you know that’s not--” 

“My answer is still no, Strike-Commander. Mission: Failed,”  Gabriel says, and the line in his neck goes taut, like a noose, when he adds: “like Gaza.”

  _Seeing the two of you act like this would’ve killed Ana._ Jack’s already pulled a fist back before any thought of Ana can reach his mind in time. His veins are back to boiling point, even though he knows the other man is in no condition to fight back. What does give him pause isn’t Ana or even Gabriel raising an arm to defend himself: Angela’s medicine jounces from their movement, off  the bed and onto the floor. With a pop and a click, it folds open to reveal the notes Angela had printed (not written), three slender vials of amber liquid, and…

 The fingers locking down Gabriel’s wrist squeezes his hand at the sight of the syringe and needle.

 In an instant, the fight in his blood dies and is replaced by a cold, uncontrolled panic.  At press conferences, the camera flashes and recording lights would sometimes blink in such a way they resembled the rogue omnics they’d fought during the Crisis.  They’d fix it in editing, but during live feeds, it was all too obvious when the Strike-Commander would stop in the middle of  a sentence for five, sometimes ten seconds at a time. They took out the parts where his jaw and neck would tighten, and how his eyes flit while  nerves decided whether  fight or flight was the best option; then, cut away back to  a  calmer, more convenient mindset suited for the public eye.

 Fight or flight hadn’t been options in the SEP: not with their limbs restrained and their backs barbed with injections in every pore. Their necks were braced so they couldn’t see themselves, only each other, as every snap of latex meant another shot was was going in, getting pulled, or shuffled to a different area. Nothing to do but endure whatever they were pumping into them as it broke down, reshaped, and reformed them to perfect weapons. No comfort, but the arm  from bunk SEP006 that would use its last lingering strength to reach out to him, always just shy of his own fingers by a few inches.

 That same arm was shaking under him now. “Gabe,” Jack says, unable to cull the warble in his voice. “Gabe...I didn’t know.”

 “Shit,” he hears Gabriel hiss. What’s exposed of the man’s skin literally looks like it’s physically attempting to crawl away from his body. “Shit, Jack. Shit, please. Please, Jack.”

There’s  very little Gabriel could do in his state, injecting him would be easy. Not unlike the SEP at all.  But _it’s different,_ Jack justifies as he bends down to read Angela’s instructions. _This is about keeping him alive._

 “It’ll be quick, Gabe. I promise.”

 Gabriel jerks his head towards the wall as the covers shake with a wheezy, disjointed laugh. “I’ve heard that before. We all did... right, Seven?” 

The last two words Jack had chosen  for the override passcode had been numbers: 

Since he boarded the ferry at basecamp, his  journey to the SEP’s undisclosed location had been a nonstop tour lead by automated voices and digital guides. The first human voice he hears is after the tracker on his wrist leads him on a two and half day’s journey to a dorm in an unmarked  facility.

“Seven?” it says, and it’s so warm and unsynthesized  that tears prick the corner of Jack’s eyes. “Are you Seven?”

It suits the man standing by the other bunk: rich, warm, and dark, like the smoke from the bonfire festivals in Bloomington.  He reads the confusion on Jack’s face easily, and points from the white wristlet secured to his hand to the numbered bunk behind him. “Seven?”

“Oh!” Jack looks down at the tracker and sees the number in bold LED display. He beams and holds it up proudly. “Look at that: Lucky number Seven.”

The other man twists the dog tag around his neck and grins.  “My old CO used to say there’s no such thing as luck, just good genetics. But if you’re here, you probably have both.” He reaches for Jack’s hand. “Reyes, Gabriel. I’m in six.”

Jack chose what they started as to be what ended his override code: seven and six. 

Gabriel winces the second he hears the medical case latch snap in Jack’s hand. His arm regains a little bit of its will to fight, as it squirms under the Strike-Commander’s weight. All the more confusing is its sudden freedom from Jack’s grasp, when the man stands and takes two steps away from the bed.

The side of Jack’s scouter lights up. “Clear my agenda for today. Reschedule any conflicts for the next available slot and refer all level nine and below calls to voicemail.”

ATHENA’S voice glides into his earpiece.“...PROCESSING CHANGES...COMPLETE... INCLUDE REASON FOR CANCELLATION?” 

He glances over at Gabriel through the lens of his scouter. “I’m taking a sick day.” 

“AFFIRMATIVE.”

With a touch, the scouter powers down and Jack un-loops it from his ears. When he turns back around Gabriel is back to sitting up on his elbows, his knit cap stretching to cover the bridge of his nose.

“What...the hell was that about?”

“Mission ain’t over yet, Gabriel Reyes. ” Jack re-pockets the medicine and exchanges it for a tin of tea. He displays it on Gabriel’s bedside table. “Since Angela’s treatment isn’t an option, we’re going to get you better  the old fashion way: with  some good ol’ Morrison Family TLC.”

Gabriel’s face falls into a half-open mouthed grimace that Jack recognizes as an expression he usually reserved for Jesse McCree. “You...can’t. You can’t be serious.”

His head slumps backwards, hitting the pillow with soft, solid thud. “So this is it...this is how I die...”  

“Stop it.”

“You’re telling me...one of the most powerful men in the modern world just rearranged the entire day’s itinerary to...what? Feed his old fuck buddy chicken soup?”

“Not the precise words I’d want headlining  the press release,” Jack grits,  “but yes.”

“And that by doing so, he inconveniences , not only himself, but  also hundreds of world leaders and UN suckups vying for his attention on a daily basis?  

“Also true,” Jack admits, shrugging an arm out of his overcoat. “Why? Does my inconvenience  make you feel better?”

After a beat, Gabriel sniffles and  decides, “A little.”   

“Asshole,” Jack mutters, keeping his smile to himself as he yanks a hanger from the closet. Grey hoodies and tactical  vests line the left side of the rack, as neat and ordered as Jack last remembers them. Gabriel keeps three  black synthetic shirts between each set in a compact, repeating pattern that halts at the center. The closet’s entire right side  is barren up until the moment Jack finds a favorite spot to hang his coat.

When he pivots back around, he finds Gabriel still on his back, arms crossed over his chest like a dressed corpse. “Hysterical,” concedes Jack once back at his bedside,  “but just because you look like death, doesn’t mean you need to smell like it. When was the last time you showered?”

He forces the skull cap back before Gabriel can muster an answer,  honest, sardonic, or otherwise. Gabriel’s hair falls over Jack’s fingers in dry, matted little curls. The skin beneath them is thick with sweat.

Jack slides a hand down the length of the other man’s cheeks and finds them warm as well. “Gabe...you’re burning up.”

  
A lazy half-smile perks Gabriel’s lips. “I run hot, Sunshine, you know that…” He leans a little heavier into Jack’s palm, “you know that.”  

“Like a furnace,” Jack says, a touch too fond.  He swipes a thumb over a dark stray hair, and remembers how the cold had sunken into his bones outside. It makes  something base within quietly beg him to call the lights to zero and crawl into his old bed with him. Even the nights he didn’t have pillows or comforters, he had Gabriel.

 “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Jack  decides, before any other inclinations start to resurface. Gabriel’s head drifts boneless onto the pillow when his cheek is released, but the bed turns to tar when Jack attempts to pull him out. Three to four twisted sheets claim Gabriel’s feet and legs, and takes Jack leaning and  swearing over to other man’s unresponsive body to undo whatever Gordian knot he’s made during fitful sleeps. At last, Jack’s excavation ends and he’s able to lift Gabriel, speckled and grey head to toe in sweats, to his feet.

 Keeping him there is a different challenge. “Steady… steady,” Jack coaxes when Gabriel half buckles at the knee. He shunts the brunt of him around his shoulder, and finds him far lighter, but more unstable than expected. A small, irregular spasm wracks from the tips of Gabriel’s fingers to his chest, and makes it difficult to provide support. Jack would have an easier time holding onto smoke. 

Gabriel walks more like he’s wounded than sick. He moans a little deeper into Jack’s back  with every step towards the to hall bathroom. It turns into a full on growl when motion sensors bring the bath lights up to full.  Jack drags Gabriel’s wrist up to the touch panel to bring up his preferred settings, and then lowers the water temperature and jet strength by two bars  before confirming.

 “Too cold,” Gabriel  mutters when Jack swats his hand away from messing with the controls.

“If you get any warmer, I’ll need to stick a meat thermometer in you to take your temperature,” Jack retorts  after refusing a third screen asking if he would like to add champagne to the bath. “Want you clean, not cooked.”

 He manages to get Gabriel propped on the edge of the tub just as the water starts.  “For the best then, I guess.  Would hate to end up like that Christmas Eve chicken parm.”

 “That was… one time,” Jack trails, knowing full well there have been at least three separate chicken parm incidents that he can remember. He lowers to a squat on the grey chenille rug and unrolls one of Gabriel’s socks off his feet.

 “Thought Santa came early,” Gabriel continues, “and left  us both coal.”

 “So we’re on the naughty list then?”

 “If we’re not, we’re doing our jobs wrong, Jack.”

Jack’s thoughtful hum drowns under the starting rumble  of the jacuzzi jets. He goes to his knees to test the water, and knows Gabriel will gripe about the temperature the second it doesn’t scald the skin from  his bones. The second sock rolls off just as easy, and without hesitation, Jack moves to to lift the  long sleeve sweatshirt  by the hem.

Which Gabriel violently fights back down. “You don’t need to undress me,” he snarls. A shiver bolts over his crossed arms, and his sick flush deepens. **“** I’m not a child, Jack.”

 Jack swallows a “Hard to tell  with you these days” comment. His frown dramatically softens while watching Gabriel’s hands struggle just to  pluck the fabric at his back and roll it slowly over his head. After a few snags and a couple of  colorful curses, Gabriel fights himself free and flings it with whatever strength lingers.  It plops into an unceremonious  pile at Jack’s side, while Gabriel’s chest---Gabriel’s _bare_ chest, crisscrossed white with scars and a gentle smattering of hair--carves into itself with frequent, unsteady breaths. His hands knock into the side of the tub while at rest for a few exhales, before he hooks his thumbs around the band of his sweat pants. He inches a bit of fabric down his hip and shoots Jack a dark glare. 

“Don’t watch me, either.”

The bath steam stripes Jack’s ears and cheeks. “I wasn’t.”

“Uh-huh.”

Gabriel rolls another inch of skin free as blue eyes dart towards the wall. “Nothing I haven’t seen before anyway,” Jack huffs, just as the flow of water cuts off. 

Immediately, Jack’s jaw endures a cannonball formed  from ratty grey sweats. He turns to make a remark about how his patient’s  waning strength  seems to be increasingly selective, and does so to Gabriel’s backside: a little more cinched at the waist, but nothing he hasn’t seen before. It’s a garden of scars that Jack has watched Gabriel grow over the years,  and he knows their names, their sources, and which ones he planted there himself.

The thick, bone-white scars that follow the shape of his spinal column shouldn’t belong to Gabriel.  “RAVAGERS” went under a different name before the Crisis:  REAPER units would often work some of the adjoining acres of his family’s farm. They were tall, slender omnics whose most tell-tale features were the crepuscular blades  that shaped their arms and extended down past the elbow. Jack, however, knew them best by the curiously shaped faces he’d see towering over  fully grown stalks of corn. As a kid, Jack used to always approach them from behind in order to see their heads whirl  around to greet him.  Their unique V-shaped sensors turn the movement into a charming resemblance of the barn owls at the Indiana Raptor Center.

But his barn owls turned to violent specters on the battlefield. The programming that had allowed them to survey land and identify organic material from every angle turned the peaceful gathers into proficient hunters. One had broken their flank.

Jack only remembers seeing the pale face for a second before mud was shooting up his nose and Gabriel’s weight was pressing into him.  Panic sends him reaching to grab one of  Gabriel’s loose shotguns instead of his rifle, and a single click at that range sends the owl face backwards. Jack deploys a biotic canister before even assessing the damages, before even checking  for a pulse. When he can’t find one, he furiously orders every laminated holy card littering Commander Reyes’ desk drawer  to give. Him. Back. He looks for a miracle to speed along the nanobots ribboning the thumb deep slabs of missing flesh from Gabriel’s back. The only thing in arm’s reach is the still sparking  severed face of the RAVAGER; and Jack has just enough  time to wonder how such a comforting face from his past could twist  his insides into a knife, when he feels Gabriel’s chest rise with breath again.

They had  kept that horrific thing’s face, too: a  prize token for cheating death.

“I’m not looking,” Jack promises as he slips his arm under Gabriel’s, before the other man can protest. He steadies the other against the puckered scar over his back and works with him to guide him into the bath. 

Jack takes Gabriel’s place along the edge of the tub once he sees the man comfortably submerged, knees propped up among the healthy puffs of steam settling over the water’s surface. Dark tufts of days’ worth of dirt, sweat, and skin begin to fizzle off like smoke.  Filters make quick work of all of it, however, and keep the water clear without wasting fresh water.  

Already, Gabriel is starting to look like himself again. Frugal and practical as the man was in the field, he was surprisingly fastidious once domesticated. He adored showers in the evening, rending the halls each time with warms songs in English, Spanish, or an occasional Italian.  Short performances, unless a particular chord managed to siren Jack away from news or work to join him.  

Baths were rarer luxuries that neither of them ever entertained without the other.  Jack always prompted them, but had a hunch Gabriel got more out them. He  feels almost a decade’s worth of validation, as the man rotates a shoulder against one of the jets and makes a noise that reminds Jack of cattle lowing.

“How is it?” Jack asks, unable to resist.

A sudden rigidness overtakes Gabriel’s limbs; more than enough evidence for Jack that the man briefly forgot he wasn’t alone. “It’s fine.” He arches his neck back with a sniff. “How about you? Enjoy playing lifeguard? Or… you just here to admire the view?”

He slides a cruel hand down the length of his inner thigh, until it disappears below the froth of bubbles linking the space between his legs. Slow ripples sprout up from where his arm bobbles back and forth, ever so slightly above the surface. Jack’s throat constricts just a breath before Gabriel splashes a peal of water up at him. It’s only strong enough to reach Jack’s arm, but that doesn’t deter the smug chuff Gabriel makes.  

Jack decides to return the tantalizing favor by linking his fingers through the dark curls crowning the other man’s undercut. “I was thinking I could help you take care of this mess,” he adds with a short yank. Despite them being tangled with dried sweat, Jack can’t help but feel a brief stab of jealousy over its thickness. Gabriel had never been one to fear a razor blade to the scalp before going on assignment. Bio-altercation masks for undercover stings responded better to faces with minimal interferences, and he was always confident it would be back in full in about a month.  Jack’s wistfulness over such a trait wasn’t exactly classified between them: if not through words, then by the appreciation of loving fingers during quiet hours.

It’s no doubt what stirs the  pleasant drowsiness to return to Gabriel’s eyes as he leans deeper into the circular little motions roaming over his scalp. “Like I always say, Jack: your mess is mine, and mine is--”

He coughs, spitting back water that Jack suddenly swiped at his face. It’s a juvenile move, especially considering Gabriel’s condition, and Jack experiences more than a pinch of remorse. Jack can practically hear Ana’s “Children, behave!” from the doorframe, the mother’s arms crossed at two grown men who tested her patience and parenting skills far more than her own daughter. He’s far gentler when goes he to dowse the top of Gabriel’s head with two scooped palms, noticing how the man’s scarred shoulders point every time water splashes down on his neck.

Jack reaches above for the automated shower dispenser, and waves a blind hand to activate the sensors. He tries again, only looking up when nothing appears in his hand, and sighs to find the red light flashing, empty.

“Still keep the refills under the sink?” he asks, already up and moving towards the lower cabinets. He knows the answer before Gabriel grunts an affirmation: Gabriel Reyes is a creature of habit. Jack’s leaving wouldn’t have changed that.

He shuffles through fillers for mouthwash, self-cleaners, aftershave, and soap; a plunger, air fresheners, and several self-charging emergency lights. From the back, Jack retrieves one final stray cartridge of shampoo, before sending along an automatic request for another case down to commissary. A service omnic would be by later to drop it off.

The sink mirror goes opaque with steam when Jack gets to his feet, and another boyish urge rushes over him to doodle or write something in the condensation. Gabriel always disapproved of it; no matter how many hearts or “See you tonight”s Jack included, the man saw no artistic value in lingering smudges and fingerprints he’d have to wipe down later.

The towels hanging adjacent to the mirror were more to Gabriel’s taste: plump and grey with a spiraling “G” in golden script. Like the  closet, they occupied the leftmost side of the rack, hovering like finely embroidered ghosts beside an open space that used to house a pair currently tucked under Jack’s sink in Central, unused. The  blue “J”s never looked quite right in his personal bath without their partners.  He reaches for the smallest of the embroidered wraiths, and uses it to dab the back of Gabriel’s neck once he returns to his side.

“Here,” Jack offers, and Gabriel receives it by burying his face into the plush towel with an appreciative grunt. He begins to work the bit of pruning out of his fingers with it, as Jack attends to the empty dispenser. “Why do you never reload these things, anyway?”

He doesn’t catch Gabriel’s reply. For the first time, he gets a fair look at the shampoo he recovered and notices that the cartridge is only half-full. Jack tilts it to read the writing along its side, as the rust colored liquid glides along with it.

Pumpkin Butter: A seasonal scent. Jack’s favorite.

Though Gabriel harbored a much deeper, hidden homesickness, Jack had not been immune it either. Overnights and Cub Scout camping trips had always been difficult for him as a boy, no matter how much he enjoyed them. Right before bootcamp, cousin Delia gifted him a roll of pumpkin scented chapsticks. She had just returned from studying art history abroad for a semester, and assured him they made sleeping in hovels feel as though she was back on their families’ connected acres, lying next to an open autumn window. Hyperbole, for sure, but it did help ease the aches from Basic; and again at the SEP, where he had to explain to Senior Officer Reyes why eleven pumpkin flavored chapsticks had just rolled out of the front of his duffle bag.

 Gabriel had acted charmed by the idea, though Jack guessed that in part to help the young soldier save face. It wasn’t until years later, after  restoration had begun and the groundwork for a new global Overwatch was being laid, that they came up again. He and Gabriel had caught a redeye back to the States, and exhaustion had worn down Jack’s reasons and resistance for not sharing the neck pillow wrapped around his lover’s shoulders. With a whiff, he’s back in Bloomington’s cornfields, fourteen and helping Dad load up freshly cut rows of pumpkin for the harvest festival at First United; no thoughts of RAVAGER units, or BASTIONS, or the collateral Taipei faced after that failed siege.  

 Gabriel yawns that he “thought he’d try something new” now that he has a chance to. Says he always felt guilty after that surprise assault cost Jack his bag and all nine remaining chapsticks in Lima. He asks him if the scent compliments him; asks him what he thinks about it.

_Home_ is all Jack remembers saying before dozing deeper into the fields--into a portion of Jack that Gabriel had made a part of his own skin.  

_Peculiar_ is what Jack thinks now, as he works the dark hair into a lather. He had a rare moment two Novembers ago to go back home for a week. A week, just himself, to spend sunsets on the pealing burgundy deck of his family’s farmhouse; and walk wood trails four paws behind Griffy and Musket, before coming home to roasted tenderloins, mashed potatoes, and a slice of his grandmother’s sugar cream pie. Yet, under the waft of roasting pumpkin seeds and wet Labrador noses in the evening, a queasiness swiveled, not in his belly, but over his lungs and chest. It’s then that the son of an Indiana corn farmer sits up in the room he spent the first eighteen years of his life in, and realizes that he’s homesick for a person, not a place.

“Yes?” says a muffled Gabriel Reyes. He pulls back the towel muzzling the lower half of his face and dips his head back just enough to make eye contact. It startles Jack just how much he’s leaned towards Gabriel while working on him.

Gabriel squints a perfect mirror to Jack’s own confusion. “You said my name, Jack.”

While Jack doesn’t remember, he still can feel the sweet spot on his teeth where his tongue connects for that final syllable of his name. The years have seen that syllable said in every feeling from hoarse and tender to quick and angry. The lies too. “I need to rinse you out, that’s all.”

“Ah.” Dark eyebrows lift slightly at the explanation, apparently content with the answer. “That’s fine then…assuming you don’t Chicken Parm my scalp.”

He surrenders the hand towel to readjust himself closer to spout, and then surrenders himself back into Jack’s hand. A pair suds-webbed fingers mark one last swirl into him before calling up the panel for bath water pressure and temperature.

“Shame,” Jack says. “I thought you of all people would appreciate having a shade darker than black for a head of hair. Might help you with all these greys I’m seeing.”

Gabriel’s laugh trumps his cough this time. “You’re one to talk,” he manages to get out before squeezing his eyes shut against the rush of fresh water. When his shoulders start to tense up, Jack nudges the temperature up until he relaxes again.

“We’re lucky to have them.” Foam falls away from Gabriel’s features as Jack’s fingers continue to guide the water over him. He tussles from the roots up to make sure the only white remaining are prickly dashes of silver. “That’s all I ever wished for both of us as soldiers.”

His orders have buried too many faces without wrinkles; too many heads full of color, and homes filled with children. _Al-Farouk_ , he suddenly remembers as the rest of their names spill through his fingers like water, all from one stupid mission. _Singh. Bayless. Mirembe…_

“You wanted to grow old,” soothes Gabriel’s voice, “with me.”

The water cuts off, except for a few dying drips that Jack lets tick into the tub. His hands roll from the back of Gabriel’s damp head up to the sides of his cheeks. He cups the deep scar gently with his thumb and it leans that sweet pumpkin scent to his nose. A droplet touches the top of his lips as they brush against Gabriel’s forehead, and pull a shiver out of the other man’s aching lungs.

Gabriel’s eyes are fully open when Jack draws back, his irises golden among  burst blood vessels. His mouth hangs open in the shape of Jack’s name without making any sound. Jack wants to hear him say it; wants to kiss him again, lower and longer.

 But in a blink, Gabriel’s expression curdles and he sits up so suddenly that the water rocks and almost takes Jack into the tub with him. “Did Ziegler tell you to administer _that_ as well?”  

Even  under the more unshaven parts of his face, Jack can make out individual jaw muscles threatening to snap.  “I decided to go with a second opinion on this one,”  Jack assures.

 He manages to coax a half smile into a full on grin when Gabriel looks over a bare shoulder at him; his expression momentarily pacified to back down to a neutral annoyance. Gabriel splashes backwards, and this time, lands Jack with a face full of water.

“A cold shower?” Jack teases, ignoring every dry embroidered towel in the room in favor of a dog-like shake of his head. “Fair enough.”

The timer on the jets completes and the water between him and Gabriel stills. “You shouldn’t be here,” Gabriel says.

The words do the work of ice water. Though there’s no malice or even irk to them, the same chill Jack gets whenever reading casualty reports settles over the base of his neck. He rakes a hand through his bangs. “Gabe, that was…I wasn’t thinking.”   

“You ‘ _weren’t thinking_ ?’ ” The congested snort dissolves into a chuckle. Gabriel turns with a full string of white teeth bare. “Now _there’s_ something I never have to deal with on a daily basis. If I had half a credit for every time Jack Morrison did something without thinking...”

He settles his back against the opposite end of the tub and stretches his legs out. “Go home.”

Jack bites the inside of his lip, already feeling the warmth and taste of Gabriel fading from it. _Where_ he wants to ask, even as answers start filling his chest like coughs: _Bloomington? Gallipoli? Central?_

And the one Jack can’t quite manage to cover, “Gabriel.”

“Don’t make that face,” the man says, tipping his head back in a groan so fast it hits the tub with an audible thud. “McCree’s too goddamn old to look like a lost puppy. It looks even worse on you.” He sighs a little deeper into the water before repeating, “Go home, Jack.”

He tucks his chin towards his arm, bird-like; the same position he assumes during long flight naps.  His eyes are far from shut however, Jack can tell that much. Gabriel always angles himself  at a slant whenever he feigns sleep; in particular, whenever he would look out their bedroom window and wish for LA.  

Homesickness. It’s easier to diagnose than his actual ailment, but the Strike-Commander still marvels at the irony over how the caretaker had been more contagious than the patient.

With a grunt, Jack stands and heads for the hallway. “Can you keep your head above water long enough for me to put your sheets in the washer?” he asks once in the doorway.

A scoff ripples over the water, behind him. It’s unsurprised in the slightest.“Haven’t you done enough?”

There’s a hard spark in Gabriel’s s voice: a challenge that Jack recognizes from the other side of their conference table. The Blackwatch Commander had an opinion that was both adamant and rarely silent when it came to Jack’s orders. He prefered a more selective approach when it came to deciding when, where, and with whom Overwatch should be involved with.  Whereas Jack …

“I think you already know the answer to that one, Commander Reyes,” he says and Gabriel groans so loud, Jack can’t help but grin at an all too familiar and reluctant affirmation. “Do you want me to help you out of the bath before I go? Or stay in a little longer?” 

A decade seems to roll over Gabriel’s expression when he leans his head towards Jack: he’s the face from the bunk across from him in the SEP, bloodshot eyes and skin slick with sweat; the face that shares a locker combination and giddy kisses when they think no one’s looking. He’s seen his cheeks colored by every sunrise in the world, and seen his shoulders sag under all of its problems. There’s no cynicism or sarcasm. His mouth moves quiet and honest when it whispers  the shape of the word:

  
“Stay.”

 

###

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and please check out [ Laur-rants' art here!!](http://laur-rants.tumblr.com/post/155052674657/alright-so-this-is-super-late-because-life-sucks)


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